The communal visitor center looked something like a cafeteria with no windows. There was a television mounted to the wall in the corner inside a plexi-glass case. There was a coffee vending machine that only brewed decaffeinated coffee. There were half a dozen large, circular tables with matching chairs made of muted off-white molded plastic (no sharp edges), bolted to the floor so they couldn't be thrown or moved. There were stacks of magazines with curled edges and some donated books. Several low risk patients who were not confined to their rooms had meandered in and lounged around the television, a few reading.
Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. The three visitors stood awkwardly at the entrance, then looked at each other.
"Do we wait?" Lestrade asked.
Sherlock had told John to come. Naturally, John expected him to be waiting. Puzzled, John turned slowly, taking in the room.
There were two ways in, one where they'd just entered, and another that led into a corridor at the other end of the center, leading to the patients' rooms. A large sign over head read "No Visitors Past this Point." Sounds of muffled crying and dull thuds echoed up that hallway. John thought about the misery neatly tucked away in those rooms. Undoubtedly, Sherlock was there, somewhere.
Suddenly, John's intermittent-tremor hand spasmed.
John grunted painfully. He turned away from Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and walked off directionlessly. He jammed his hand in his pocket to still his fingers and distract the shooting pain in his joints and as he did, his fingers curled around the Bamboo Pink lipstick. He'd forgotten it was still there. He rolled it around in his fingers, squeezing until the ache passed.
"Look," Lestrade said, pointing towards the patients' corridor.
John and Mrs. Hudson looked just in time to see Mycroft rounding a corner and, upon seeing the three of them, his step quickened as he walked.
Damn it, not again, John thought. He felt Mycroft's phantom hands around his throat, squeezing his windpipe shut. He squared himself and waited with his hands stiffly at his side, ready for anything.
"Excuse me," Mycroft announced, unexpectedly pleasant, as he entered the visitor's center proper, clasping his hands in front of him. "I know you're all anxious to see Sherlock, but I'm afraid you're going to have to wait just a little longer. Please make yourselves comfortable."
John asked, "Is everything okay?"
"Everything is fine," Mycroft assured him (too quickly, too soothingly.) "There was a minor incident this morning with Sherlock. Its presently being sorted."
Electricity jolted up John's spine as he imagined the possibilities: "Moriarty?"
Mycfort said, "God, no. I assure you, nothing that serious."
"Mycroft," John pressed.
"It's nothing serious," Mycroft insisted.
John stared at Mycroft unbelieving.
"Well," Mycroft amended. "Nothing life-threatening."
"Ah." John inhaled, puffing up his chest. Now he understood. "Feeling the consequences of making that post on his blog?"
Mycroft twisted his lips in a sour, non-committal expression to neither defend his brother or agree with him and John knew immediately that he was right.
Lestrade turned towards John, saying reproachfully, "Don't be like that. I'm sure it took a lot of courage to come out like that, on his blog and all..."
"Courage?" Mycroft interjected, unable to hold back his bitter opinion, "Or one stupid impulse?"
Mrs. Hudson huffed in disapproval. "It's not stupid. You should be proud of your brother!"
"Why?" Mycroft asked. "Because he isn't in his right mind? Because he isn't thinking through his decisions? Making his deeply personal struggle public in a blog post is not a sign that he's come to terms with this situation or that he's making a recovery. It's just another instance of Sherlock behaving..."
Mrs. Hudson folded her arms and glared at Mycroft, daring him to insult her precious Sherlock.
Mycroft stared at Mrs. Hudson blankly for a moment. Then he smiled thinly and finished, "…not like himself."
Mrs. Hudson lifted her chin. "Sherlock has every right to say what's in his heart," she defended. "He's a good boy." She marched up to Mycroft and jutted her index finger into his chest, looking none-too-pleased. "And I want to see him right now."
"Sherlock is preoccupied…," Mycroft began.
"Right now!" Mrs. Hudson insisted, loudly.
John studied Mycroft's face, saw how the other man's face fell in an uncharacteristic way that should have been beneath him. John could see how his body language, usually finely tuned to exude authority and control, was showing signs of fatigue of impending defeat. Something serious had transpired in the past twelve hours. Something more severe than the bruising of Sherlock's pride.
"What happened, Mycroft?" John pressed. "What can I do to help?"
Mycroft rolled his shoulders. Composure regained, all hope for the truth was lost. "I'm afraid there's nothing to be done now. It's just going to have to play itself out."
Just at that moment, the lobby doors opened and everyone turned to see Molly Hooper walking quickly inside, looking rattled and rushed and surprisingly well-dressed in a white cotton suit. She looked at Mycroft with uncertainty and then at John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson each in turn. "Oh. Um. Hi, everyone."
Lestrade dumbly lifted his hand and half-waved.
Mrs. Hudson followed suit awkwardly.
John slowly thirded the wave.
"Molly Hooper," Mycroft greeted, looking her over in a mixture of relief and sympathy. "I apologize for the inconvenient timing but Sherlock asked specifically for you."
John's head whipped in Mycroft's direction. Sherlock asked for Molly?
"No, no, that's fine," Molly said quietly. "I don't think the interview was going anywhere."
Mycroft motioned towards the tables. "If you and the others will take a seat, Sherlock will be along soon. He'll be very glad to see you." He pointedly looked at John. "All of you."
John cleared his throat. The betrayal must have been written all over his face. He tried to swallow it back.
Just as Mycroft began to turn away, Molly said timidly, "I'm sorry. I've only seen you once before…"
"Mycroft Holmes," he reminded her. "Sherlock's elder brother."
"Sorry," Molly said. "Hello again then, Mycroft. Sorry I didn't remember…"
"It's quite alright, I'm very familiar with you."
"Oh," Molly said, as if it explained everything.
Mycroft nodded and continued on towards the hall.
Molly called after him, "What was the emergency? Is everything okay?"
Mycroft didn't stop, but turned around backwards and offered her a half-smile. "We're having something of a modest catastrophe and Sherlock….well, he was rather insistent. He'll be along shortly, I promise, and he can explain then…but if you'll just take a seat for now… By the way, you deserve my most heart-felt thanks. Your intervention may very well have saved Sherlock's life..."
Everyone looked at Molly then, and, impossibly, she shrank further.
John's teeth were tightly pressed together.
In his mind, a vivid picture was forming. A picture of Sherlock and Molly: Molly, with the revealing and poorly fitted black dress at the Christmas party with the pathetic little gift. Molly Hooper. Odd and dull and boring and endearing and loyal and too eager to please, like John.
Ah. Well. It had taken exactly zero time and effort to be replaced. Damaged side-kicks are a dime a dozen, apparently.
Mycroft added as he moved on, "…and I would like to express my gratitude more thoroughly, but there's something very pressing that demands my immediate attention. So if you'll please excuse me…"
Molly put up her hands nervously. "Not at all."
Mycroft ducked down the hall and turned a corner.
Molly turned around shyly and gave everyone a shrug.
"You?" John asked Molly smugly.
"Me…what?" Molly asked.
John strutted up to Molly, looking her up and down. "You were the friend Sherlock wrote about on his blog." He gave her six months, max.
Molly, confusion in her expression, looked back and forth between John and Lestrade. "What are you talking about? What blog?"
Lestrade explained, "Sherlock wrote openly about what's been happening on his blog. He put it out there that he's gay and he was at the hospital for suicide watch and that a friend encouraged him go. We've all been wondering who that was, considering that we've all been looking for Sherlock for days. That's how we all got here."
Molly blinked. "I didn't know."
"He posted it this morning," Lestrade finished. "Or late last night, I'm not sure."
Molly's expression flickered. Excitement, disbelief. "I told Sherlock he might want to consider coming out and maybe his blog was the way to do it…but he so vehemently rejected the idea…I didn't think he would do it!"
John smirked. Oh, this was rich. "Sherlock talks to you about being gay?"
Molly balked and backed up a few steps, but John remained in her personal space, following her.
"When exactly did you last talk to Sherlock?" John demanded, an edge in his voice, possessive and hungry. "Has he been hiding out with you? Do you have any idea what I've been going through, waiting for him to come back?"
"John," Lestrade said, putting his hand on John's shoulder and pulling at him. "Hey. Lay off."
John's focus remained completely on Molly. "What did you two talk about?"
"John," Mrs. Hudson said critically. "That's really not very good. What friends tell each other in confidence should be respected. I'm sure if Sherlock told Molly anything, he would want it to stay private. Just wait your turn. Mycroft said Sherlock would be here soon…"
John looked at Mrs. Hudson. "Sherlock and Molly aren't friends. I'm Sherlock's friend. He doesn't have other friends."
Molly gazed at John for a long minute, her face bewildered but her stare very focused. She examined John's face back as carefully as he seemed to be examining hers.
Lestrade barked at John indignantly, "And what am I? Chopped liver? I'm Sherlock's friend, too. So's Mrs. Hudson. You don't have a monopoly on Sherlock Holmes. Christ, what's gotten into you?"
John looked at Lestrade, then to Mrs. Hudson, his bravado wilting under their hot, stern gazes. He looked at Molly and she was giving him the same look. "Sorry. I…I know that," he admitted. "I didn't mean it." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know where that came from."
Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson's expressions softened a bit at John's admission, and John knew he was forgiven.
However, Molly's face was still unchanged. She was stiff, her face blank. She had an expression like she'd just been crossing a dark parking lot and a stranger came out from behind a car to hit her up for her number and wouldn't let her leave. She looked at John like he was an unassessed threat. Regardless of what he might say, whatever smooth line he might use, she didn't believe his intentions were good. All her instincts screamed at her to run. Or fight.
John said, "Look, I don't know. I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm saying." He ran his hands through his hair. "I'm just really strung out. I'm so desperate to see Sherlock with my own eyes and see that he's really alive and I can't take another delay. I'm sorry, Molly. I didn't mean to jump on you like that."
"I am friends with Sherlock, just so you know," Molly said. She didn't sound defensive or snotty, but she said it firmly and seriously in a way that suggested there was no room for interpretation.
"I'm not saying you aren't….I just. I don't know." He inhaled sharply and left the sentence unfinished. He looked away and breathed for a moment.
Molly paused, as if waiting for John to complete his sentence. When he didn't, she pushed, "You don't know what?"
"Molly, stop," Lestrade urged. "Don't antagonize John. He said he was sorry. Leave it."
"No," Molly said more firmly and little louder. "I want to know what he means. John: what do you mean 'You don't know'? You don't know what?"
"I…I don't…I don't…" John looked over at Lestrade, who shrugged at him in turned. John looked at Mrs. Hudson, who put up her hands. John looked back at Molly. "What the hell are you asking me?" He wasn't sorry anymore. Now he was being provoked and he didn't like it. He was only going to feel repentant towards so many people.
Molly said, "I said, 'I'm friends with Sherlock' and you said, 'I don't know.' What don't you know? Do you think I'm a liar?" Now Molly wasn't just loud, she was talking down to him like he was stupid.
And being talked to like he was stupid wasn't something that John was ever going to put up with again. "I didn't call you a liar. Stop putting words in my mouth. What are you being so touchy about?" John said, trying to hold on to his cool. "I said I was sorry." But it was the kind of smug 'sorry' now where he didn't really mean it, like he was proud to make someone else miserable. "I just…have never seen you and Sherlock together socially. I know that you've known him longer than me and maybe you have some history I don't know about…but…in the two years we've been flat mates, he's never mentioned you." John exhaled. "Not once."
Molly just stared at John.
John waited, hands on his hips.
Molly said, "I don't have a crush on him anymore. I know he's gay. I get it."
John said, innocently, sarcastically, "I wasn't suggesting anything."
"Okay," Lestrade said, stepping between them. "Why don't you two just relax?" He looked miserable. "This is absolutely not the time or place for…whatever this is."
"I didn't go seeking him out," Molly said over Lestrade's shoulder at John. "He came to me. Just so you know."
John nodded vigorously right back at her. "I bet you think he's there to see you every time he comes, right?"
"John, stop," Lestrade protested, facing him.
Molly crossed her arms defensively.
"Let me give you some friendly advice," John offered Molly. "Sherlock Holmes may seem larger than life. He may seem…brilliant. And exceptional. And what he does is important and he's the only one who can do it. And if he singles you out and asks for your help, it will make you feel like you're something extraordinary, too."
Lestrade put his arms gently on John's shoulders and pushed nudged him, making John back up. John allowed himself to be manhandled, but he continued to talk. "He…sweeps you up, carries you away. But before you know it, you're just another thing. You belong to him. He won't care if you're tired, if you've had enough. He won't tolerate you putting anything or anyone else before him, but he'll never put you first. It's always the work. It's always the work."
"Okay, John," Lestrade said encouragingly, leading John to a table and pulling out a chair. "Just…have a seat. Over here."
"You're just a voyeur," John went on, "watching Sherlock Holmes pursue his true love, watching him openly swoon over a criminal, over the grisly details of the crime like some groupie. All the while, you're dragging your ass past exhaustion, when you feel like you're going to die if you take one more step, for him, always for him, but he can't even be bothered to look over his shoulder at you to make sure you're still alive, then you'll finally ask yourself, 'What am I doing here?' And even though all it might take is one simple, 'Thank you' and everything would be forgiven, what you can expect every time, every single time without exception…is to be called an 'idiot'." John nodded emphatically, not even noticing Lestrade forcing him to sit down. "If that's the life for you…if you like being called stupid…if that motivates you, if that's your idea of friendship…you know…he's all yours." John put up his hands. "I don't want that life anymore."
Molly asked, "I can't believe really came here to tell Sherlock that you don't want to be friends anymore."
"Maybe I did," John said, looking between his knees at the floor.
"Molly," Lestrade urged quietly, walking to her. "John needs to just sit by himself for a little while. Come with me." He extended his arm and touched Molly's shoulder and together they went to the other side of the room.
"He should go then" Molly said. "So he doesn't say something hateful to Sherlock."
"John's got a lot to sort out in his heart," Lestrade murmured. "I can't think of a safer place to get your head straight than at a psychiatric hospital."
That left just Mrs. Hudson staring at John, her little rainbow flag still between her fingers. But no longer waving it, the fabric drooped in her grasp. It looked as disappointed as Mrs. Hudson.
"Don't look at me like that," John scoffed. "You didn't really think we were happy together, did you? Me and Sherlock?"
Mrs. Hudson said, "I know that Sherlock doesn't think you're a 'thing.' He adores you."
"He doesn't," John said bitterly.
"He does. He thinks the world of you."
"Well, I wish he wouldn't because I don't think that much of him anymore…"
"He told me so."
John didn't answer.
Mrs. Hudson dragged a chair close to John and sat down in it, leaning her head down close to his. "He was so excited when he met you. He called me up one afternoon. Said he'd take me up on that offer for the flat because he'd found someone to share it with, that he wanted to start moving in right away. He said 'Mrs. Hudson, he's an army doctor, you'll like him.' He was so tickled." She laughed a little.
John said nothing, hanging his head.
Mrs. Hudson's feet and John's feet were close together, her left knee nearly touching his right knee. And in her fingers, between his legs, she twirled the rainbow flag in a spiral. "Looks silly, doesn't it?"
It took John a moment to realize she was talking about the rainbow flag. "It's embarrassing," John said. "Who decided on rainbow colors for gay pride? Couldn't they have picked something with more dignity?"
"Or something not so loud?" suggested Mrs. Hudson. "Something mournful?"
"Mmm. I see your point." John's limp hand drifted closer and he ran his fingers over the fabric. "But rainbow?"
"You're right." Mrs. Hudson smiled and dragged the fabric over John's knuckles. "They're clown colors. You'd have to be really, really proud to wave a flag that looks like this." She swirled the little flag around and looked John in the eye. "I'm that proud." She took the tiny wooden pole of the flag and put it in John's hand. "Here. You give it a try."
John held the flag in his open palm. He closed his fingers over it and held it limply. He stared at it. "I can't," he said, handing it back.
Mrs. Hudson didn't take it from him, leaving it in John's hand. "Imagine how Sherlock feels. He can't ever give it back."
John opened his palm again and looked at the rainbow flag.
Mrs. Hudson said, "He either has to…learn to be proud of that silly little thing…or hate himself along with it for the rest of his life." Now, she took the rainbow flag from John. "I think he wears those black suits because every day is a funeral."
John started laughing a bit.
Across the room, Molly and Lestrade were sitting together. They both looked over at John and Mrs. Hudson.
"What is it?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
"I had this picture in my head," John said with a little smile. "Of a big gay pride parade. Like one of those crazy ones you see on television. Like the ones they have in New York or Miami, everyone half-dressed, with body paint, running crazy in the streets, with streamers, people wearing condoms in their hair. And then there's Sherlock, standing on the sidewalk, completely unimpressed going; 'Dull.'"
Mrs. Hudson dissolved into laughter and John started laughing again with her. "Oh, yes," Mrs. Hudson remarked, "That's Sherlock."
John licked his lips and shook his head. "Yeah." He stood up.
Mrs. Hudson sat up and looked lovingly at John.
John stood absolutely still for a moment. "WHY?" he screamed suddenly, kicking a bolted table infront of him with such force that two legs cracked and plastic shards flew in every direction, nearly sending the table flying but for the two remaining legs.
Mrs. Hudson yelped and jumped up from her chair and in a minute, Lestrade was up, putting his arms around her and pulling her a safe distance from John. Molly got up as well, taking shelter behind Lestrade.
"Why?" John shouted again, giving another forceful kick, dislodging a third leg and toppling over the table. "Why did he have to be gay?" One more kick destroyed it completely, and he picked it up and flung it across the room. The other patients, in their chairs around the television, scrambled and ran off. "What am I supposed to say when he comes out here? 'Hey, sorry I made you feel bad. We can be friends again, but I'm going to live with my girlfriend and not with you and we'll have different jobs and probably never see each other. How's that sound?'" John flung himself against a wall and pounded his fists against it. "Why did I have to say 'faggot'? Why did I say that word? I meant to say something else, I really fucking did, it just slipped out, it just came out, I didn't mean to say it. He's such a ponce, he's such a bastard. Why couldn't I just have a row with him like a normal bloke? He called me an idiot, he was rude to my girlfriend. He's such an inconsiderate asshole and a prick and fucker, God, what a dick. I could have called him anything else that morning, I could have said any other word and this wouldn't have happened. He would have just blown me off and done his thing and everything would be normal. But I had to say the most horrible thing I could think of. He doesn't care about anything. He'd never listen to me. I'm just a fucking nothing to him, I'm nobody. Just a pathetic cripple he picked up for kicks. He pretends I'm important and I'm not. I wish I never came back from Afghanistan. I wish I never met him and never saw how stupid and ugly and boring I was. I wish I was dead in the desert." John turned around, resting his back against the wall, his hands clenching into fists. Finally, he stopped and looked at his friends.
Lestrade was staring at John in shock, his arms encircling Mrs. Hudson who looked horrified. Molly stood behind Lestrade, looking suspicious and ready.
John said, "I'm sorry. Tell Sherlock I'm sorry. I'm not the friend he needs. I'm nothing. Except this. I could have died in service of my country and been someone, been a hero." He began to walk towards the exit. "I have to go."
And suddenly, Mycroft was there. Nobody saw him emerge or approach, just suddenly he was quickly walking through everyone's line of sight, making a beeline right for John. He reached down and grabbing John by the upper arm and shoving him around to face him. "I told you that you had one chance and that I wouldn't give you another," he said not angrily or impatiently, just authoritatively. "You're making me regret that I allowed you to come here. Do you understand that we heard everything you just said all the way in Sherlock's room? I think the whole hospital heard you." He yanked a handkerchief from his breast pocket and thrust it into John's hands. "Wipe your face and turn around and don't. Say. Another. Word." He turned around in the direction he had come. "I'll see you out, Mummy."
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0
Author's Note: That took…a lot out of me.
